


lay to rest

by scandalous



Series: Merry Month of Masturbation [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalous/pseuds/scandalous
Summary: Chase knows this is wrong.
Relationships: Robert Chase/Greg House
Series: Merry Month of Masturbation [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726999
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: Merry Month of Masturbation 2020





	lay to rest

**Author's Note:**

> for the **merry month of masturbation**.
> 
> enjoy!

Chase knows that this is bad. This is _awful_. He should not be doing this. But he can't stop himself.

It's wrong. It's disgusting. If anyone knew, they'd cut all ties with him. And he can't blame them, because he's getting off to the thought of a man who is dead. House is _dead_ , but for all he can try, he can't get him out of his head. He had always been attracted to him, like a moth to a flame— before marrying Cameron, he spent long jerk-off sessions with his name on his lips; embarrassingly elaborate fantasies devoted to him. To being taken by his boss, debased, _owned_.

And of course, he could deal with it. It always left a sour taste in his mouth, because he was his boss, because he was dating Cameron, because he was being embarrassingly submissive all while trying to get out of that role at work. But now it's even worse. Now the guilt seems to consume him whole; he doesn't want to be like this. He doesn't want to think about this, about him like this.

He's dead. He saw the body, he went to the funeral. He got named new Head of Diagnostics. He tries not to be as much of an asshole as House, he tries to still work the cases and find diagnoses. He succeeds most of the time— he manages just fine with his fellows, people he hopes don't desire him sexually because he _really_ doesn't want to be in the position House was for years and years.

He's trying to be normal. He's trying to not get off to the thought of a man he's mourning still. But as he thinks of him, his strong hands and his ice blue eyes, his cock always stirs in interest. It's almost impossible for it not to, after spending numerous hours getting off to the man. He wants to lay it to rest, just like they laid him to rest.

He's dead. He died in a fire. He shouldn't be getting off to him.

But we all have our vices, don't we?

It's not like he's thinking about the fact he's dead while he gets off. For those long minutes, he stretches backward into time, and thinks about him, alive and well and breathing. Mocking and handsome and teasing, eyes staring down at him with distaste. He could hold that gaze for days, that gaze that was ever so slightly disdainful and cold, enough to get his rocks off but not enough to get his feelings hurt because of it.

When he spends himself, he draws in a shaky breath and lays his head on the pillow. He cleans himself up, puts the tissue on the nightstand. Reality hasn't come crashing down just yet; he can pretend he's going to work tomorrow, that House will mock him in front of everyone like always, that House will smile at him and call him a pretty boy.

But it won't; he knows it won't. 

House is dead, and beyond all his masturbation sessions can say, he misses him. 

He misses him terribly, a hole in his chest as he thinks back to the funeral. How nobody tried to keep praising him after Wilson interrupted to tell them he was an ass. And just because he was dead didn't mean they had to _lie_ about who he was.

He's right, he guesses.

But he still misses him. He'll always miss him. Years will roll on, and he will keep missing him.


End file.
